Golden Crown
by AlyshebaFan1
Summary: An insurance fraud case makes Juliet rethink her relationship with Shawn and see her partner in a new light.
1. Chapter 1

All right. I know Charm_ed is Deceitful _and _Playbills Don't Pay Bills_ are both sitting around, unfinished, and with the former, Carlton and Juliet don't have lips any more, but I when I gets an idea I gotta go with the idea, ya savvy?

* * *

"This is just _unspeakable_," Juliet said, crouching down beside the victim's body. "Who would do such a thing to such a beautiful creature?"

"It's the money," Carlton said tiredly. "And for that, God help us all."

The victim was a gloriously beautiful chestnut two-year old filly. Her coat, even in the dimness of the large loose box stall, was the color of a brand new penny, and she had a wide, comically crooked white blaze down her face, which only added to her appeal. Her beauty was marred by a line of blood trickling from her left nostril – she had been electrocuted to death, and her final moments must have been agonizing. That was evidenced by the way her long, slender legs were angled, her hooves having dug desperately into the loose sand and straw of her stall as the currents had jolted through her body. She had flailed against the wall before in her desperate scrambling for her life, before falling down on her right side in almost the center of the stall.

"The owner called it murder," Juliet said softly, touching the filly's neck and withdrawing quickly, startled at how cold and damp the skin felt. "I can almost agree." Juliet had a hard time thinking of horses having _fur_, as it was so very fine and short, but she looked at her hands and saw short hairs on her fingertips. She brushed them away, feeling queasy.

"It's murder when you kill a human being. It's heinous when you deliberately kill a healthy Thoroughbred filly." Carlton looked around the large stall for a moment, making sure not to disturb anything as he searched the ground for clues. The filly's struggles had shifted the hay around a lot, and obviously no human footprints would have been left behind anyway.

Juliet stood up, feeling weary. It was bad enough seeing what humans could do to humans, but to a _horse_? A beautiful animal that only lived to outrun other beautiful animals and only asked for hay and carrots in return? For God's sake, she thought miserably, was the world really this rotten? She wasn't really even into horses, but she definitely understood the concept of 'fire bad, horse pretty', and this filly had been drop-dead gorgeous. Now…she was just…meat.

She wanted to throw up. What a _desecration_! A majestic animal, reduced to dog food. She couldn't stand it any more, and had to turn away, looking out toward the training track beyond. She could see horses galloping by, the group running abreast and well restrained by their riders, who were singing and laughing.

"The obvious first suspect is the owner," Carlton pointed out in his usual succinct manner. "But she's practically hysterical with grief – the filly had won all three of her starts at Hollywood Park and was heading into a stakes race next week. This wasn't some two-bit plater from Suffolk Downs, O'Hara. This was a future stakes-winner and half-sister to two other stakes-winners, including a grade-one winner. For God's sake, her sire was Golden Snake and her dam was by Tiznow."

"Who and the what by the huh?" she looked at him, brow furrowed. She knew Carlton knew a lot about horses, and that he actually read the _Dairy Racing Form _sometimes, but the lore and language of equines – particularly the racing variety - eluded her.

"Never mind. Either way, this is…disgusting. This kind of thing happens, sadly enough, though usually it's in show-jumping circles, not as often in racing. It happens, though. And I'll be damned if we don't catch the bastard that did this."

"Right." She brushed some straw off her jacket. The scent of horses and saddles and hay was both bitter and wonderful, and she paused once she was outside the stall, which was at the end of the long shedrow of the well-maintained training barn. Mrs Lydia Cromwell, a prominent breeder of racehorses in California, kept her racing and breeding stock on her huge ranch in Santa Barbara County, and both detectives were impressed by how well the horses were cared for, and by how clean and orderly everything was. It was clear that Mrs Cromwell loved horses, and spared no expense on their care and upkeep. Juliet had been amused by Carlton's comment, when he got out of the car, about how the best way to make a million dollars with horses was to start with _two_ million dollars – and Mrs Cromwell clearly had _several_ million dollars.

The two detectives had been called to her training farm early that morning, and the owner was adamant that the killer of her horse be found and 'if possible, fried like a cheap steak'. A brief flicker of cold blue light in Carlton's eyes, as he had stared down at the body of the dead filly, indicated he was hoping for the same type of punishment for the vicious SOB.

"So if she didn't have anything to do with it," Juliet asked, daintily stepping over a steaming pile of…_something_ as she followed Carlton out of the stall and out under the shedrow eaves, "who would profit besides her?"

"There's potential heirs, for one thing, and then there's enemies…" Carlton said, looking up the length of the long row of stables. The heads of six horses, two bays, three chestnuts and a grey all were looking out of their stalls at him, ears pricked forward, eyes softly curious. Juliet couldn't keep from smiling as her partner finally touched the nose of the nearest horse – a grey. "Pretty little mare," he said as the mare started trying to chew the cufflink off his duster coat.

"How can you tell it's a mare without…looking?" Juliet asked, gesturing toward the mare's back end.

"Finer bone structure of the head. Very feminine – see the jaw, and the line of the throatlatch and…" he stopped then, realizing she still didn't speak the language, and he noted that she made no move to try and pet the mare too. "Don't tell me you're afraid of horses, O'Hara. You'll have to rescind your Man Card if you are."

"I should love them," she laughed "Being a _girl_ and all, but…I fell off a Shetland pony when I was little."

He looked at her, brow furrowed. "A Shetland pony? So what did you break, a fingernail?"

"I was three! It was very painful and frightening."

Carlton snickered. "I've never fallen off a horse. I was _thrown_ once, when I was twenty and broke three ribs and a kneecap. I was back on three weeks later, against doctor's orders"

"Oh, shut up," Juliet groused, but she was smiling just the same.

"Oh, ew…cow patties and…and what's that smell?"

The two detectives turned to see Shawn Spencer and Burton Guster making their way up the shedrow. One of the horses – the tallest bay – snaked his head out and tried to get a mouthful of Shawn's arm, but the faux psychic moved away just quickly enough. Guster, on Shawn's outside, was avoiding the horses well enough on his own and looked uninterested in becoming acquainted with any of them.

"What in the name of God are you doing here?" Carlton snapped at Shawn.

"Solving the crime for you, of course, then I thought we'd go for pony rides. I'll buy you some cotton candy, Lassie, and you can ride the biggest pony. His name is Dobbin. Do you like cotton candy?"

Juliet stepped between her partner and her boyfriend. "Shawn, you were not called to this crime scene, I told you not to follow me at breakfast this morning, and I'm sure that if I call your father about it, he will be surprised to learn that you're _here_, right?"

Shawn ignored her and stepped around her so that he was almost facing Carlton again. The grey mare's ears went back at the sound of Shawn's voice.

"The spirits told me the victim was blonde with blue eyes, about six feet, of Scandinavian extraction, and speaks with a lisp. Or spoke with a lisp….seeing as how she's dead, I doubt she's got much to say now. Where's the body?"

Carlton's expression – stony and unreadable – didn't change. He gestured toward the open stall door and stepped aside. "Take a gander, Spencer, and tell us what the spirits say."

Shawn stepped inside, yelped, and scrabbled back out again seconds later. "That's a dead horse!" he gasped. Guster showed no interest at all in going into the stall. In fact he had chosen an unfortunate spot in which to stand, as it was not far from the grey mare. She didn't seem offended by his presence, however, and was currently licking his face. The young pharmaceuticals rep was grimacing in horror but was too terrified to move away.

"Yep. I think Spencer's seen all he wants to see." Carlton gently shooed the grey mare away, and she pulled her head into her stall, sulking.

"Where's the deceased lisping Swede?" Shawn asked hopefully, having recovered some of his dignity and keeping a wide berth from the grey mare. She had put her head back out and was letting Carlton scratch her ears.

"That," Carlton said, turning from the mare and pointing into the stall at the dead filly, "is the victim. Golden Crown, by Golden Snake out of Tizacrown, by Tiznow. Winner of three allowance races at Hollywood Park. Killed by electrocution sometime last night, ETOD roughly midnight. And since you now are in _charge_ of solving this crime, O'Hara and I will leave and get some damned coffee."

He turned away and stalked toward the car. Juliet followed him, avoiding suspicious-looking piles of things she'd rather not discuss, and didn't even glance back when she heard Shawn shriek. "Gus! Gus! This gray horse bit me! Oh my God! He won't let go of my arm! Owww! Guuuus!"

* * *

She hated it when Carlton fumed.

He had an interesting way of fuming. Most men growled and snarled, and sometimes they threw things, or at least threw full-blown tantrums. Carlton Lassiter, however, would read the newspaper.

She could tell he was fuming, because he was gripping the edge of the paper rather tightly. He jaw kept clenching and unclenching, and his mouth had formed a hard, almost invisible, line. He had herded Juliet into the Vic and had driven away from the Cromwell Stud and Training Center at a rather quick speed, hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly he had had to pry them off when he'd finally stopped at the diner.

A call to Henry had revealed that Shawn had indeed _not_ been cleared to consult on the case, and later Henry had called her to tell that Shawn and Gus had been ordered to leave the scene immediately or risk arrest for trespassing. Vick had been taking a harder line with Shawn lately, and Juliet was actually grateful for it. It meant working crime scenes more calmly, efficiently and productively, and they didn't have to worry about spending extra time to make sure the case could be presented to the DA without any question marks. It was becoming increasingly annoying, to Vick, that _all_ of Shawn's cases required a lot of extra work to make them stick.

It also meant that she could work on repairing the damage she had done to her partnership with Carlton, after having kept her relationship with Shawn from him.

In the meantime, she had become reacquainted with the reason why her partner was head detective of the SBPD: he was just _damned_ good at his job. In the past week, she knew that Carlton had personally solved three murder cases, four B&A's, two bank robberies, a gas station holdup, a dognapping, and an assault case involving a lobster and a pair of hot tongs, all _without_ Shawn's help. Juliet supposed she ought to feel guilty that it made her laugh, to see Shawn pouting about his lack of involvement, but...she didn't.

"This could be a pretty big story, for the press, couldn't it?" she asked at last.

The top of the paper dropped down and Carlton's blue gaze settled on her. Some of the anger was gone, but he was still tense.

"Eh?"

"I mean, a valuable racehorse gets killed by electrocution. Maybe there's…I dunno…a serial horse-killer wandering around Santa Barbara. Maybe horse owners around here should be warned?"

"Sounds like a good idea either way, but I don't think it's a serial killer so much as a hired killer."

"Really? People…do that? Hire someone to kill their horses?"

"If the horse is more valuable dead than alive, yes."

"Good God…that's awful!"

"Ever heard of Alydar?"

"Who?"

"Guess not. Great racehorse. Finished second to Affirmed in all three legs of the nineteen-seventy-eight Triple Crown, mainly because Affirmed was running scared. Became an ever greater sire. Sired two Derby winners, a Preakness winner and a Belmont winner, and scads of other good horses. Fabulous broodmare sire, too. Anyway, he stood at Calumet Farm, in Kentucky, which was having a lot of financial problems because the manager was an out-and-out crook who had married into the owner's family. One November night in nineteen-ninety-one, Alydar's leg is 'accidentally' broken and he was euthanized the next day. All indications were that he was killed for the insurance money – he was priceless. Worth his weight in gold, _literally_."

"Wow."

Carlton leaned forward, putting the paper down. "We need to do a clean investigation. There's not much we can do about someone having killed the horse, except possibly animal cruelty charges, but that's only if they can be proven. Smoking gun, basically. What we need to do is prove insurance fraud. We'll need to get the information on how much that filly was insured for, first and foremost."

She was intrigued. "Are all horses insured?"

"Racehorses, yes." He nodded and flagged the waitress for a refill of his coffee. She smiled at him as she filled the cup, and Juliet eyed the woman rather coolly. Carlton didn't even realize he was being flirted with, and when the waitress finally gave up and left, he put his forearms on the table and leaned in, hands clasped. "On average, a well-bred Thoroughbred yearling is insured for between seventy-five and two hundred thousand dollars, after a veterinary exam. It's standard. Considering Golden Crown's breeding and race record, I'd think by now she was worth between three hundred and five-hundred grand."

"Wow. And what happens if they're really successful?" Juliet asked, genuinely intrigued. "I mean, at racing…among most horses?"

"The insurance company comes in again, usually at the end of their two-year old racing season, and decides on the horse's value, after another vet check, and there's re-evaluations as the horse keeps racing, and another once they retire for breeding - stallions are generally more valuable than mares. There's two or three equine insurance companies in California that I know of, offhand, but we'll ask Mrs. Cromwell who she generally deals with."

"That's a good start," she nodded, taking a final slug of her coffee.

"Think that gray mare is still tossing Spencer around?" he asked her with just the smallest trace of a smile.

"I can't really say as I'd blame her. She liked you, though."

Carlton shrugged, straightening the paper carefully. "One thing I learned, when I was a kid, working with cattle and horses…" He rubbed the back of his neck. "Cows don't give a damn if you know what you're doing or not – they'll kick you across the byre and think nothing of it, because they just feel like it. Horses…they _know_. They always know. If they pick up that you don't what you're doing, you'll be lying in the dust, with the wind knocked out of you and a pair of hoofprints on your chest."

"So you think that the mare knew Shawn isn't the horsey-type?"

"I doubt Spencer's been around horses since he got on that one at Santa Barbara Downs…remember that? It's a wonder he wasn't riding it backwards."

She laughed. "Yeah, I remember. He definitely didn't have a clue."

"He doesn't seem to have a clue about much of anything," Carlton muttered, getting up. She glanced up at her partner, seeing the weary lines around his eyes, the extra grey in his hair, and how his eyes seemed less vividly blue than usual.

"Are you okay?" she asked as she got up. The urge to straighten his tie and soothe away that scowl made her hands twitch, and she forced herself to keep still…again. She never touched Carlton – he didn't like being touched, and became embarrassed if she even so much as brushed a piece of lint off his lapel. He had that wall up, always, and it was even more heavily guarded lately.

"Just tired."

"Are you sleeping well?" she asked, wondering if she could risk persisting.

"Enough." He dropped dollars on the table, for the tab, and brushed past her. She felt the heat from him, and the scent of coffee and a fainter scent of timothy hay and horses, but also sensed that something wasn't quite…right. He had been subdued lately – quieter, more remote…_cold_. She knew that a lot of people, including her amazingly clueless boyfriend, thought Carlton had no emotions, but that was simply untrue. Carlton Lassiter, she knew for certain, was the most emotional man she had ever known, and his recent withdrawal from her had nothing to do with a murdered filly.

She rushed to catch up with him, glancing at the waitress, who caught up with her before she could get to the diner door.

"Uh…are you two a couple?" the waitress – her nametag said 'Megan' – asked her.

"No," Juliet answered, wondering why her cheeks suddenly felt so warm.

"Oh. Right. He has gorgeous eyes," the waitress said, peering around Juliet and through the window at Carlton, who was leaning against the Vic, talking on his cell phone.

Juliet didn't know how to answer that. She managed a vague smile and headed out into the hazy late morning, ready to get started on what looked like a challenging – and frankly fascinating - investigation.

* * *

I'm not an _expert_ on racehorses or horses in general, much less insurance fraud, but I know a bit about it. Horse-killing for insurance money does take place, sadly, in racing and in show-jumping. Most who follow such things believe that Alydar really was a victim of insurance fraud.

TBC...


	2. Chapter 2

This seemed longish, so I cut it off where I cut it off and will contend with part 3 when I can get to it. Probably too much info about the racing and breeding industry, but you write what you know, and I visit Blood-Horse dot com every freaking _day._

* * *

Carlton kept his mouth firmly _shut_ when Spencer and Guster showed up at the station after lunch, both looking somewhat petulant. The sleeve of the fake psychic's shirt looked like it had been chewed on with great vigor and rage-induced enthusiasm by a gray mare, and Guster just looked traumatized. It wasn't every day a buttoned-down pharmaceutical rep got licked by a horse, Carlton figured.

He studiously ignored them both as he made a few phone calls before preparing to contact Mrs. Cromwell for an interview, and after a brief conversation with her, he was on his feet and heading toward the door, expecting – and knowing – O'Hara would be right behind him. He was putting on his shades and halfway to the car when he heard her heels clicking behind him, and was starting the engine as she bounced into her seat beside him and strapped herself in.

It hadn't taken her long, he admitted, to get used to his _abruptness_. When he wanted to move, he moved, and if she didn't want to be left in his dust, she had to move fast, too. Fortunately, she could even keep up with him when he was at a flat run, in fact, despite the fact that she had to take two strides for his every one and usually wearing heels.

Glancing out the rearview mirror as they pulled out of the lot, he saw McNab escorting Spencer and Guster out of the building, and he couldn't keep his mouth from twitching. Vick had been cracking down _hard_ on Spencer, lately, and he could thank his boss for his happy lack of headaches in the past few days as a result. In fact, her words three weeks ago had been 'Your job is to consult. Your job is _not_ to hang around the station bothering my detectives and behaving like a twelve-year old on crack, nor is it to disrupt actual work being done by trained professionals who have to pay bills and would never even think about sniffing Wite-Out fluid. Do not come here until you are _called_. Is that _clear_?' which had been followed by the two young men being emphatically escorted from the building by McNab.

Sometimes, Carlton felt sorry for McNab – he was so often put in doorways with orders to eat anyone who tried to pass through, or to haul people away by the scruff of their neck, or to tackle large, ugly men and wrestle them into squadcars. It was like having a one-man Brute Squad for the station.

Not that he would ever express his sympathy out _loud_ for the big, sweet-natured goofball. Maybe a suggestion, to Vick, for a bit of extra pay would be in order, though. Mainly just to even things out on the grounds of aggravation and having to waste time babysitting a childish thirty-six year old.

He had, however, lost a lot of sympathy for O'Hara. She had _chosen_ to hitch her wagon to the SpenStar and if she wanted to spend the rest of her life making excuses for and babysitting a fool and his BFF (because _surely_ she realized Guster was part of the SpenStar Package), that was her own damned fault. He had, nevertheless, resolved with himself that if she ever came to him crying about Spencer, he would refrain from saying 'I told you so'. Mainly because he would only be one of many, but also because he was not one to deliberately makes someone miserable.

They drove back out to the Cromwell Stud and Carlton paused at the gates, looking across the field at a group of weanlings galloping around, nipping and bucking at each other. The colts – of varying shades of bay and chestnut and gray – gathered in rather neat circle, called a play and took off, chasing each other across the field and disappearing over a hill.

She smiled, enchanted by the scene and intrigued by Carlton's expression – he seemed to truly enjoy just _looking_ at horses, and she had no trouble admitting that quality horseflesh was indeed gratifying to look at. "Why don't you have a horse, Carlton?"

_Carlton wasn't bad to look at either. Particularly in that dark gray coat and blue tie, but really, he looks good in anything_

_Shut up, stupid. Remember – you're dating Shawn?_

_And why, exactly are you wasting time and childbearing years on _Shawn_, of all people? When are you going to admit that it's not going anywhere? That Shawn's a placeholder, an experiment in finding out what you actually want, and that it's not a little boy you have to babysit and who insists you only do what _he_ wants and has no regard for your feelings or your values or any words that actually come out of your or anyone else's mouth? And yet you're supposed to believe he _loves _you? Really? Stupid much?_

_Calm down_, she told herself, even as she was feeling another flash of anger at her boyfriend. Last night's tragic pineapple and curry incident, which had been followed by a round of Shawn and Gus playing 'pull my finger', had made her finally leave in disgust, knowing full well they would be making crank phone calls until dawn or watching some bonehead movie that they could quote word for word, like idiot (operative word being 'idiot') savants.

_Again, why are you dating Shawn? So you can think in furious run-on sentences?_

_Because…because…_

_Yeah. Okay. Get back to me later on that, hm? Maybe you can claim the sex is good. Bwah!_

"Hard to keep one in a condo," Carlton said, startling her from her rather heated inner monologue. He shrugged slightly before pulling into the driveway and punching the button on the security box. A brief, only vaguely tense conversation with a security guard was followed by the gates opening and he eased the Vic down the paved drive, past several palatial-looking barns, and finally into the curving driveway of a large, gracious-looking mansion that looked like something out of _Gone With the Wind_.

"You could easily keep one stabled somewhere," she pointed out as she unbuckled. "Though I guess they are expensive."

"And I don't know that most horses would appreciate life on a civil servant's salary. Most women don't either, from what I've experienced." He parked and got out, and waited for her, looking up at the mansion.

"I know! You could get a retired police horse, from the LAPD or suchlike," she said brightly after getting out of the car, standing next to him. For just the briefest moment, they made contact, her shoulder brushing against his upper arm. He glanced down at her, expression as guarded as ever, and walked away, up the steps to the double doors. He rang the bell and stuffed his hands in his pockets, dark head down a little, shoulders at that usual proud, arrogant, military posture.

Juliet's watched her partner, feeling miserable and wondering, _How am I ever going to get him to trust me again?_ Worse, as she contemplated that difficult task, she had to ask herself again, _Why should he _ever_ trust me again? Didn't you break trust with him? Didn't you lie to him and conceal things from him, and isn't that kind of violation of the whole 'partner rule' thing? Haven't you treated him like he means nothing to you at all, just to make your boyfriend happy? How many times have you gone with Shawn's wackaloon theories instead of listening to your _partner,_ who has taught you everything you'll ever know about being a detective? What does that say about your own personal honor…much less your taste in men?_

_What does that make you, O'Hara?_

She sighed, told her inner voice to can it for now and come back when she was alone with a bottle of vodka, and stomped up the steps, self-recriminations not helping a bit.

The door opened and Golden Crown's owner stood in the doorway, ash-blonde, blue-eyed, softly pretty and probably not much older than Juliet, if at all. She was dressed in a white silk blouse, pink skirt and gray cashmere cardigan and she was wearing a string of pearls that was probably worth a years' salary for both detectives. At first, Juliet figured this woman would be a classic trust fund snob, but instead she exuded warmth and friendliness, in spite of her obvious stress, and she greeted them graciously. "Detectives…Lassiter and…O'Hara, am I right?

"Yes, ma'am. We just needed to discuss a few things with you about the…uh…death of your horse last night," Carlton said.

"Right. Please, come right in…we'll sit in the conservatory. Would you like some iced tea?" Mrs Cromwell's gaze lingered for a few moments on Carlton, and Juliet caught the young woman carefully tucking a lock of hair behind her ear and straightening her clothes a bit as Carlton sat down on the sofa. She looked at her partner, and sure enough, just like always, he _didn't notice. _Women noticed Carlton, whether he wanted to admit it or not.

"No thanks," Carlton demured, and Juliet noted the usual sharp edge to his voice was absent. He was speaking to Mrs Cromwell, in fact, in the same kind of voice he used when talking to horses. Firm, but…gentle.

They sat down in the flower-infested conservatory, and Juliet looked around, dazzled by all the bright blooms. She recognized hibiscus and gardenias and begonias, but was stumped by some of the other plants, including a pot of something that looked like roses but…_weren't_. What were those things called? Rododiculous? Rodonculous? Skunk cabbage? Oh…whatever, she thought. Horticulture had never been her forte.

Juliet turned her attention to Mrs Cromwell. According to the file, she was named Antonia Patricia Wallop Cromwell, and her husband, Andrew, had died six years ago of stomach cancer, leaving her the entire estate, all the horses…and tons of cash. She was well known for donating to worthy causes all over the state, including a place outside town that provided hippotherapy for emotionally traumatized and developmentally disabled children. In fact, several of Mrs. Cromwell's more sedate former racehorses 'worked' at the place.

Carlton got right down to business, not even glancing at the flowers, much less at Mrs Cromwell's lovely legs and general air of…_niceness_

"Do you have anyone in your immediate family or in your circle of friends who might have something against you, Mrs Cromwell, to make them kill one of your animals?"

"Antonia. My name is Antonia. And…not in my family, no. My husband's family have been breeding horses in California since the late eighteen-nineties, and my family started breeding racehorses in the nineteen-thirties. We run one of the most reputable operations in the state, and our horses receive the best care possible…thus, they win, and frequently, and not just in California. We've had horses win in the East, and in Europe, too." She looked out the window at the lush gardens that extended beyond what looked like a guest cottage behind the mansion. "I just can't believe this happened. Golden Crown wasn't just a good filly, you know? She was kind. You know how barn cats won't go near some horses? Well, she had her own barn cat. Only the kind horses get a barn cat that wants to hang out with them all the time…and now that cat seems depressed, too." She wiped her already puffy eyes. "I wouldn't have cared if she couldn't outrun a fat man, Detective. I've had at least three great broodmares like that, after all, including Golden Crown's own dam. But Golden Crown was so sweet…you could have put a baby on her back and she wouldn't have moved a muscle."

"I'm certain she was a really sweet filly," Juliet nodded. "And she was really beautiful, too, and I don't know much about horses at all. We're very sorry about what happened to her, and we hope to at least find the person or persons who killed her. But we do need some details on her insurance…we want her killer to pay." She cleared her throat and glanced at her partner, whose raised eyebrow was the only indication that he found her statement rather unusual. "I understand Thoroughbreds are usually insured…what was her insurance value?"

Antonia Cromwell thought for a moment. "She was assessed last fall at one-hundred-seventy-five thousand."

"As a yearling. When was her last re-quote?" Carlton asked.

"She was scheduled for her vet check and reassessment on September the sixth," Antonia told him. She picked up a vanilla folder on the sofa beside her and handed it to Carlton. "All her paperwork is there, including her registration papers and the insurance files. I just got this out of the files before you arrived."

"Thank you." Carlton looked relieved to not have been required to ask for the papers. He opened the folder and scanned through the documents, with all their dry statistics on market value, health (with terms like 'scoping' and 'bone scans', general form and health, pedigree, sire's stud fee, dam's estimated market value, proven and potential racing ability, possible value as a broodmare (though as a two-year old, the entry simply read 'undetermined'), and his brow furrowed. "She had an assessment on August the tenth, ma'am."

"Wh-…what?" Mrs Cromwell looked genuinely bewildered, of which Juliet took careful note. "No, our horses are generally re-assessed in early September, after they've had at least two starts, and her first start was on July the second..."

"She was re-assessed at one million dollars, on August the fourth," Carlton told her. "Her last start was on August the first, where she won a two hundred thousand dollar Class One allowance race, which gave her stakes earnings." He read the paper over and Juliet felt, rather than heard, him sigh. "Your signature is here." He handed her the paper and Mrs Cromwell's face went white as she read it, her eyes widening with shock and very obvious horror.

"I never signed this," she said softly. "I…oh my God…I'm the only one who is allowed to sign the reassessment orders for any horse I own!"

"Are you saying someone forged your name here?" Juliet asked. "Do you have any idea who would do that?"

"I…no. I…I can't even imagine…" Her arms dropped to her sides, and she looked small and vulnerable, like a wounded bird.

"Even if you say that this is a forgery, and I'll be the first to admit you've given me no reason so far to _not_ believe you, this signature here does put you at the top of the list of insurance fraud suspects, ma'am," Carlton said, but his voice was still remarkably gentle. "Do you know of anyone who _would_ forge your name on this document?"

She was trembling, and Juliet didn't just see fear in Antonia's face – in fact, she saw genuine _hurt_ there, and that raised all kinds of alarms in her head.

"No. I…I don't know anyone…"

Carlton sat still, and Juliet looked at his closed-off face. He was giving away nothing, but she could almost see the wheels turning in his head. Mrs Cromwell was covering something up…and maybe covering for somebody. The detectives glanced at each other, and Juliet knew what her partner was thinking: somebody Mrs Cromwell knew had at least ordered the insurance quote.

"Who is the farm manager?" Carlton asked.

"He…his name is Cade. Cade Moreston." Mrs Cromwell's eyes were downcast, and she began wringing her hands anxiously.

"Is he in charge of arranging insurance assessments for horses?"

"For the yearlings, yes. The racing stable trainer is in charge of arranging that for the older horses." She wiped her eyes, looking more and more distraught. "Oh God…oh God…he couldn't have done this…"

"Who? Who do think may have done this, Mrs Cromwell?" Carlton asked her, and Juliet was intrigued again by the gentleness of his voice and demeanor.

"Cade…we…he and I…"

"Were you and he…involved?" Juliet asked.

Antonia shuddered, her fists clenching as her grief and dismay slowly turned to genuine anger. "Oh my God…I've been such a _fool_…"

"Where can we find Cade Moreston?" Carlton asked sharply, earning an equally sharp looking from Juliet, and she _felt_ him retreat a step backwards.

"I…I...he's…he's gone to the auction at Saratoga. He took three of the yearlings. He'll be back the day after tomorrow."

"Got any reason to fear for those yearlings?" Carlton asked, and Juliet shot him another _Look_, but his gaze will still on Antonia, who shook her head.

"Two other farm employees are with him. They're…they're both very trustworthy. He would…should…know not to do anything…like that stopped him before."

"And did Cade ever do or say anything suspicious…anything that would make you think he might be…dishonest?" Juliet asked, not entirely willing to just pin the crime on the first name to come up, just yet.

"No." Antonia shook her head, but her eyes were filled with tears. "He's…totally…charming. Always charming."

"They're like that, you know," Carlton said. "The liars and cheats are always charming. Otherwise, they'd always be in jail." He cleared his throat, not even glancing at Juliet. "And the trainer?"

"Alistair O'Herlihy."

"A mouthful," Carlton nodded, writing the name in his notebook. "I've heard of him. He's trained some good ones."

"Yes. He has. He started out in Ireland, and we hired him five years ago. He's the leading trainer at Hollywood Park. His reputation is faultless. He won't even give them legal medications, for God's sake…says if they can't run on their own merits, they oughtn't to run at all, and even then he does all he can to find good homes for the ones that can't run."

Carlton nodded again, and stood up abruptly. "Can we go through your horses' insurance files, ma'am?"

* * *

Juliet watched her partner read over the insurance papers on Golden Crown, and only occasionally did he write any notes down – she knew Carlton had as good a memory as Shawn, and at least his wasn't cluttered up with utterly useless crap, like how long an Easy Bake Oven would take to bake a pineapple upside down cake, or the cost of Yo-Gi-Oh cards that he would order and make Gus pay for.

He was also going over several other insurance papers on other horses from the Cromwell Stud, making comparisons and mumbling under his breath about stuff like stud fees and something called 'Dosage Index', which sounded utterly terrifying.

They were in Antonia's elegant and very feminine office, which was decorated in soft pastels and Louis XIV furniture. Oil paintings of the farm's best runners decorated the silk-covered walls, and Juliet couldn't keep from just browsing around the room, admiring the paintings and the little objects d'art scattered about. Antonia Cromwell, at a remarkably young age, had bred several high-quality runners. A portrait of Golden Crown's older brother Crown and Country showed him standing on the track at Santa Anita Racecourse, the San Gabriel Mountains rising behind him under a threatening sky. The jockey was wearing the farm's purple and gold silks, and they were a sharp contrast to the colt's burnished gold coat.

Carlton glanced up at Juliet, who smiled at him. "Pwetty horsie!"

He actually smiled back, and she felt her heart twist a little. "I'll say this – that woman knows bloodstock. She has experimented with all kinds of nicks…last year Cromwell Racing Stables owned and or bred _twenty-six _graded stakes winners across the country, and five of her homebreds have won national championships of various types in the past six years. As for Golden Crown, her dam is worth _nine million dollars_," he said. "At least, according to her insurance papers. Her sire – Golden Snake – was a good runner in Europe but not quite as successful at stud, though he does have some nice runners here and there," Carlton pointed out. "I don't know how much he's worth – that isn't stated, and really…pretty irrelevant. Good runners are frequently sired by mediocre sires and even more are out of crappy mares. Ever heard of Alsab?"

"What's a nick?" Juliet asked, bewildered and afraid to ask what an 'Alsab' was.

"Crossing two unrelated lines with hopes of producing a champion. They bred Fair Play to Rock Sand mares, for instance, and got scads of good horses…that outcross produced Man o' War and Display and Mad Hatter and…never mind." He was warming to the subject, but knew when to quit.

Juliet was left feeling a little dizzy. It was like a foreign language. "Who was Fair Play...and Rock Sand?"

"Never mind. What's kind of easy to understand is that Golden Crown's value would be set at one million after winning three allowance races, but it's extremely suspicious that she would be reassessed earlier and then would die just days after being nominated for a Grade Three stakes at Hollywood Park. She didn't even start off in a maiden race, O'Hara – she went right into top company, and in her first start she beat five other fillies that had already won _their_ first starts. My guess is that whoever did this was hoping to snatch up a cool million the easy way."

"Oh." The whole thing sounded hideous. Killing a person for a million dollars was revolting enough, but for God's sake…a two-year old filly?!

"So in essence, this filly's assessment is pretty much spot on, but why was it done earlier than usual? And who ordered it? We'll need to talk to the trainer, and then to this Cade whatsisname jackass, and I think we should also talk to the vet that examined her. It wouldn't be a farm-contracted vet, either. I don't know for sure, but I think the rules require the vet to be impartial and possibly even employed by the insurance company."

"Excellent idea, but Carlton…just because Cade Moreston is a potential suspect doesn't mean he's automatically guilty or that he's a jackass, for that matter."

"Did you see her reaction, though? That she's finally opening her eyes to his maybe _being_ a lying, cheating, stealing jackass?"

Juliet felt her cheeks warming. Why did she get the feeling Carlton wasn't just talking about Mrs Cromwell's boyfriend?

He shuffled the papers. "The insurance company is called Equisurance. We'll contact them first. You know, if this was a homicide, the mayor would be all over us like a cheap slut to get this solved _yesterday_." Carlton said wearily. "These animals…they're treated like royalty, usually, and hell…considering how their family trees are so meticulously guarded, they more or less _are_. And they're a hell of a lot better looking, more accomplished and better behaved than most royalty."

"It is pretty amazing, how valuable they are." Juliet said, wanting to drop the subject of lying, cheating, stealing boyfriends for now. "The barns we passed – they looked like palaces."

"On breeding farms like this, worship of the horse is a given. _I have made thee as no other. All treasures of the earth lie between thy eyes. Thou shalt carry My friends upon thy back_…"

"What?" She was startled to hear him recite something so…poetic.

"A Bedouin saying," he said, looking down at the papers. "Look at this…" He turned the papers around so that she could read them. "Compare Golden Crown's insurance documents to the documents of other horses from this farm, past and present. _All_ of the two-year olds from last year were re-quoted at the same time, and at roughly the same value each. Golden Crown's value, as a two-year old, was reassessed almost five weeks earlier than usual, and at a rate twice as high as any two-year old this barn has ever owned, including the filly's half-brother," He nodded toward Crown and Country's portrait, "who was assessed at two at just three quarters of a million, and that was _after_ he had already won a stakes race."

"Half-brother?"

"Same dam, different sire. Some mares are never bred to same stallion twice in their entire lives."

"But wouldn't horses by the same sire be considered siblings?"

"No. Only foals out of the same dam – her foals are full or half siblings. We won't go into three-quarter siblings, though. That even confuses and frightens me."

"Thank you!" It really is like a whole other language, she thought with a small smile. "So in human terms, the stallions are ladykillers, the mares are…sluts?"

"That's an impolite term for them all," Carlton sniffed. "Remember…they're like royalty, but they're athletes, too. Only in horse-racing are you likely to see the offspring of a champion become a champion, too. Not that it's extremely common, of course.

She smiled, and saw the amusement in his brilliant blue eyes. "So Joe Montana's son isn't likely to be a great football player, based entirely on genes?"

"No. In racing, they breed the best to the best and hope for the best. I doubt Joe Montana married a woman with a great throwing arm, so I wouldn't count on his kids being great football players, too, and besides, his kids won't be the result of almost four hundred years of expensive, painstaking selective breeding." He shrugged. "In racing, though, they breed...say, Curlin to Rachel Alexandra and hope the foal turns out great. Odds are, though, the foal will be a total lemon. You can almost count on it - the colt that sells for eight million at auction can't run a lick, and the colt that sells for eighty-five hundred wins the Derby."

She was intrigued. "Was…oh, what's his name…Secretariat! Was he a good sire?"

"Unreasonable expectations, in his case – there was no way he could have measured up in the stud to his racing career. He sired some damned good runners, though – Risen Star and Lady's Secret, but it was his daughters that turned out priceless. Weekend Surprise, Terlingua…"

"You're a regular fount of information, Carlton. If only you'd talk as much about _yourself_."

"Again…unreasonable expectations, and I prefer to deflect and avoid, thank you very much. Besides, I can't imagine anybody being all that interested in knowing much about me, because when they do learn things about me, they tend to shriek and run away. I have virtually no market value, at least so far as _breeding _goes." He closed the folder and began reorganizing all the papers back into their folders. Juliet watched him, feeling strangely bereft.

_But _I_ want to know. I could have known if I hadn't blown it so badly with him._

_And dammit, he has extremely high market value._

_And I'm such a fool._

* * *

Juliet read Carlton's notes on the way to the insurance company office, and wondered aloud, "If someone forged Mrs Cromwell's name on the papers, wouldn't _she_ still be the one to profit from Golden Crown's death?"

"That's what I've been wondering. Whoever forged her name – and my money is on Charmy Smarmy Cade – may have different motives. That stable is a million dollar operation, and she's got tons of cash to back it up. Ruining her financially is one thing, but her reputation would be shot to hell, too, and in the racing world, if you screw around with stuff like this, you're _done_. Honest breeders and owners want nothing to do with you, and you become a pariah. The stock gets sold off at bottom basement prices, the farm goes under…" He was turning into the parking lot of the office building. "It's Calumet Farm all over again."

"Calu-what?"

"Calumet. Where Alydar stood. One of the greatest breeding operations ever, and it tanked because of one man's greed." He parked and turned the ignition off.

"Why do they call it 'stood'? A stallion 'stands'? I saw some of the stallions back at the farm as we were leaving– none of them were standing still! One even tried to bite his groom, and another was charging around his pasture as if his tail was on fire!

"Those are questions I don't have answers to, O'Hara," he said, with just the tiniest ghost of a smile. "Now, let's go learn all about the riveting world of equine insurance!"

* * *

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

I went wild with this one. I just couldn't stop myself.

* * *

Juliet looked around the cluttered office and couldn't keep from grinning as her partner snatched up an old, rather worn-looking copy of something called the _American Racing Manual._

"Nineteen-oh-six," he whispered reverently. "My God…this is the first official edition of the _Manual_." He flipped through the book, rubbing the crinkled pages between his fingers, before gently placing it back in the row of other manuals, which stretched in a long row along a shelf behind the desk of the man they were waiting for. "This collection is entirely complete – he's even got the CD ROMs for nineteen-ninety-eight and nineteen-ninety-nine!"

"You're like a kid in a candy store," she laughed.

He looked a little embarrassed, but picked up another of the books just the same.

A racing nut would be in heaven in a room like this, she figured. She knew nothing about the sport or about breeding racehorses, but she made note of hundreds of books on racing and breeding in the packed shelves that took up the walls on both sides of the room. She peered at them, seeing titles like _Ulbrich's Peerage of Racehorses_, _Sire Lines_, _Matriarchs_ (volumes one and two), _Dynasties_, and two huge, frightening volumes of something called _Hogan's Index of Dams of Stakes-Winners, 1865-1967_, plus a group of binders labeled _Sires of American Thoroughbreds_ and numerous issues of _Blood-Horse_ magazine's yearly _Stallion Register_, plus what looked like media guides from Santa Anita, Hollywood Park, Keeneland, Churchill Downs, Del Mar, and numerous major tracks. None of the books, she noted, were dusty - this guy obviously used them, and frequently. She peered at a little red hardback book titled _Breeding the Racehorse_, written by somebody called Federico Tesio, and wondered why a book on such a clearly academic subject could be so _thin_.

"I am not," he finally said, bending a little to study a stack of issues of _California Thoroughbred Owners and Breeders' Association_ magazine. "I just…you know…enjoy the history of the sport. Some guys have baseball. Some guys have football. Some guys, for reasons that baffle me, have golf, which is a lovely walk ruined by a little white ball. Me, I have horse racing. It's a hell of a lot more interesting than reading about a stupid golf course that was built on prime pastureland."

"Who was Federico Tesio?" she asked.

"Italian breeder, late nineteenth, early twentieth century. Bred Ribot, Nearco, Niccolo Dell'Arca, Tenerani…Cavalier d'Arpino…innumerable Italian Derby and Oaks winners…all with very little money and cheap broodmares." He stuffed his hands in his pockets, obviously doing his best to not just grab some of the books and start flipping through them. "That book…it really doesn't tell you anything about how to breed a good racehorse."

"Oh. Somehow, that seems to explain everything." A kid in a candy store indeed, she thought with a fond smile. The names of the horses themselves sounded almost like battle cries, and she was becoming more and more intrigued by the subject.

"Detectives?"

Carlton turned to face Brooks Livingstone, a rather stooped man wearing white pants, a remarkably ugly red and blue checkered shirt, suspenders and a battered old white fedora. He was standing in the doorway, a copy of the _Daily Racing Form_ tucked under one arm. For a moment, Juliet wondered if he was related somehow to Woody, but he didn't have a manic look about him. In fact, save the shirt, he looked pretty normal…even benevolent.

"Y'all wanted to see me?" He had a strong Southern accent, and he actually removed his fedora when he saw her, and bowed slightly.

Juliet smiled at him, immediately charmed. Carlton, however, wasn't as easy a sell and he only nodded.

"We wanted to ask a few questions about the insurance assessment done a few weeks ago on a filly named Golden Crown."

Livingstone's bushy eyebrow rose. "Do you?"

"Yes. She was found dead two nights ago. Electrocuted. We suspect insurance fraud."

Just like Carlton, Juliet thought, to cut right to the chase.

The man looked stunned. "Are you serious?"

"As strangles," Carlton said, leaning back against Livingstone's desk, arms crossed and eyes narrowed just a little.

"That's _very_ serious. Well…let me see. I know I've got her file here…somewhere. Mrs Cromwell, right? Lovely girl…she's been through a lot. Her daddy died when she was just twelve, then her Mama died when she was barely out of high school, then her husband got stomach cancer and went from high flesh and good color to a skeleton in just a few _weeks_ and died on their wedding anniversary. Tough little cookie, though, that Mrs Cromwell. A good customer. Takes good care of her horses and her employees. Feeds them all before she even eats her own supper."

He went around to the his chair and sat down, whereupon he began shuffling through papers, found a file, perused it, judged it to be the wrong file, and got up to shuffle over to a filing cabinet that practically exploded when he opened it, several papers spilling out before he could catch them all. Juliet moved to assist him, but Carlton shook his head. She waited, and was startled when Livingstone squawked "Eureka!" and held up the correct file. "Here it is!"

"Do you know who called for the appointment?" Juliet asked, still stunned that he had been able to find anything at all.

"No, ma'am, I sure don't, and I don't seem to have a memo. But if she was re-assessed by someone here, we'd have a recorded phone call…" He dug through the file. "No memo at all…dammit… So it sure wad'n me that was called to send the vet out." He read through the file. "Huh…that means somebody from this office was contacted and sent a vet out to the track to do her reassessment, and considerin' I _own_ this company, I'm surprised I wasn't told about it." He looked downright ticked off by now. "And that somebody from this office is gonna _burn_ for it, too."

Carlton and Juliet looked at each other, eyebrows lifted. "Really? The vet would go to the track?" Juliet asked.

"Yes, ma'am."

"But the filly was killed at Cromwell Stud," Carlton pointed out.

Livingstone looked shocked. "What the hell would she go back home? She was being pointed toward a grade three stakes race!"

"Beats me. She was valued at one million dollars. Is that normal for a filly that hadn't won a stakes race yet?" Carlton asked, watching uneasily as Livingstone made his way back to his chair and sat. Juliet, too, was worried he might slip on a stack of papers, but he made it safely and began reading through Golden Crown's information.

"Not unheard of, no, but a little unusual. It is a bit fishy, yes indeed, to move up an evaluation and then have her get jolted at a one million-dollar payout. Considerin' she's a tail-female to La Troienne, it'd take a right greedy bastard to kill her. She was a genetic gold mine."

Carlton looked at Juliet, who was clearly trying to figure out what a La Troienne was, and smirked. "Let's avoid name-dropping. My partner isn't made."

"Ah. Poor girl. What's life without horse-racin'?" He looked at Juliet, grinning, and called his secretary to set up a search of phone calls.

* * *

They listened to all the calls from August the fourth, and finally the one from Cromwell Stud came up – a man with a Boston accent was heard, requesting an assessment of Golden Crown. Carlton put the earphones down and rubbed his eyes. The man had said his name was Phil Drake and had left a cell phone number, but the number was clearly from a drop-phone – it brought up nothing, and there were no Phil Drakes found anywhere. Carlton only found a horse named Phil Drake who won the English Derby in 1955, by typing the name in at Google. "I guess the guy was being ironic," he muttered, as she stared at the screen and taught herself how to read a pedigree.

Juliet was feeling cross-eyed and touchy herself, from listening to countless calls from owners and breeders of not just racehorses but other sporting horses, asking about insurance values or making claims on dead animals (quick references showed that the horses had all died of 'natural causes' – that is, illness and in some cases, old age, in addition to the tragic accidents that so often claimed their lives). At first, to her, it all sounded very callous, but as she listened, she came to understand why the animals had to be insured at all – they were expensive, carefully-bred animals that their owners invested a great deal of money into. It was only sensible that they recover a little of the cash they had spent to just breed the horse, or buy it. By noon, they were famished and headed to one of their favorite places for lunch.

Settling into a booth at Milo's Diner, he perused the menu before selecting a grilled cheese sandwich and fries. "I worked on a breeding farm, one summer when I was a kid, and a broodmare that was worth about ten times more than all the other mares on the farm _combined_ tried to hang herself in the V of a tree limb one day, just as her owner was turning into the gate. Horses are nuts – the better bred, the faster, the more valuable, the crazier they are. Ribot tried to climb trees, and tried to climb the walls of his stall. Nasrullah was _insane_. When Germans tried to steal Thor from a farm in Normandy during World War Two, he killed two of them."

"Wow…but not all of them are crazy, are they?" she asked, between bites of her ham on rye, watching his face, marveling at how relaxed he was, talking about horses. He never looked this relaxed when he talked about law enforcement or guns or the Civil War or wilderness survival. Yet again, she wished he had a horse of his own, to just…ride, so she could see that calm in his eyes.

_Carlton would be a pretty damned good ride, too, don't you think? _

She was so startled by that unbidden thought that she almost choked, and he raised his eyebrow at her.

"No. Certainly not all of them."

She forced her mind to focus on the subject, not on her partner's blue eyes and startlingly graceful hands. "But stallions are meaner, right? Like those stallions at the Cromwell farm…"

"Some are mean, but usually that's a result of how they were handled from the start. Others – like the ones I worked with – were just clever, and some are just crazy." He bit into his sandwich and suddenly snickered. "I started out just dealing with the broodmares and their foals – mucking stalls, grooming, helping with foalings. I was fourteen at the time, and if that doesn't cure you of loving horses, nothing will, but I loved it. And at least it got me out of the house, away from…from my family."

She waited, wondering if he would say more. He rarely talked about his family, and only revealed bits and pieces in unguarded moments. She knew very little about how he was raised, and from all appearances, his childhood had been _unpleasant_, in that it had been virtually nonexistent.

"What was her name?"

"Whose name?" he asked, eating a French fry.

"The mare. The one that tried to kill herself."

"Frosted Glass. A big gray mare, foaled in Ireland. She won a few minor stakes in Ireland and France. Had nineteen foals in all. Six stakes-winners. One of her foals finished third in the English Derby, and he won a bunch of other big races across Europe – he was named Nails, appropriately enough. She was _eccentric_, when I knew her. Liked to have her own way, and considering what a good broodmare she was, she was entitled to any damned thing she wanted. She was a strict mother, too – her foals all had excellent manners. She had a foal every year, and after she got pensioned off she was used to babysit the young mares, and then she'd take care of the weanlings."

"Good Lord – she must have been tired!"

He frowned, expression carefully closed. "I remember the day they finally put her down. She was twenty-eight, her knees popped when she walked, and she had stopped eating – she was just _done_, and her owner knew she wasn't going to last another winter. We walked her down the hill and I remember the vet holding up the syringe, and I saw label on the the box that said 'Avoid accidental human injection' and thought, 'Duh!'" He took another bite of his sandwich. "Even in dying, she was dignified." He shook his head. "That's a good way for a kid to learn how to cope with death, I guess. If you can't handle death when you raise horses, you'd better quit and raise daffodils."

* * *

Chief Vick listened to Carlton's rundown of the case of the dead filly and sat back in her chair, thinking. "So you think someone from the farm actually killed the horse?"

"Someone from the farm – or at least they said they were from the farm, who called himself Phil Drake – ordered the reassessment for the filly's insurance on August first, she was valued at one million on August the tenth, and she was dead on August the twentieth. What concerns me, of course, is that this person or persons might be a danger to other horses on the farm. Cromwell Stud has twenty-nine broodmares and four stallions, including one of the nation's leading freshman sires…"

"Freshman?" Vick asked, looking bewildered.

"Uh…his first crop…er…first bunch of two-year olds are running this year. Vanishing River…?" He raised an eyebrow at Vick, who stared back at him, uncomprehending. "He was a major runner in Europe – won a lot of big races, including the Arc. Cromwell Stud imported him four years ago and his first foals are running this year. He's got twenty-four two-year olds, eighteen have started and sixteen have won and the other two have placed, and he's got seven stakes winners so far. He's _priceless_."

"Was he the one that tried to bite his groom?" Juliet asked. "And what the hell is an Arc?"

"Yep," Carlton nodded to Juliet, then turned his attention back to Vick. "The Prix de l'Arc de Triomphe. He won it by ten lengths." Off everyone's stare, he sighed. "It's the most important handicap race in Europe."

"You recognized him?" Vick asked, rubbing her forehead. Apparently, this subject was extremely exclusive, and not to be understood by those who didn't speak the language.

"Big gray horse."

Vick waved her hands, feeling lost. All she knew about horses was that Iris wanted a pony. She barely even knew what the difference was between a 'pony' and a 'horse'. She would have to ask Carlton about that, but not now. "So you think this…Vanishing River might be a potential victim?"

"If I were Mrs Cromwell, I'd have a twenty-four-seven watch around him. He's worth a hundred times as much as Golden Crown. Either this guy just likes to kill horses, or he's hoping to make a lot of money doing it. What he hopes to accomplish by killing off the Cromwell horses, I don't know just yet, but I have a theory that may or may not hold water."

Vick nodded. "And the other farm stallions?"

"Witchwood, Sharp Dressed Man and College Station are older and are good, consistent sires, but they've struck gold with Vanishing River." Carlton stuffed his hands in his pockets.

"You've done your homework, Detective."

"I just…keep up," he said with a shrug. "I have a subscription to _Blood-Horse_. What, you think I only read _California Law Enforcement Quarterly_?"

"That and _Guns & Ammo_," Vick said, barely able to hide her wry smile. "So what's your theory?"

He sat down and scooted the chair forward. Juliet sat down, too, and lined her chair up with his, eager to hear his thoughts. "The person of interest is Mrs Cromwell's boyfriend, Cade Moreston, who is in Saratoga right now, where he's handling the farm's consignment of three yearlings to the auction there. Anyway, my _theory_ is that Moreston has brought some people in on his scheme to bring the farm down, force Mrs Cromwell to sell out at rock bottom prices, and when that happens, the same group of people allied with Moreston snatches up those horses and they do some pinhooking or just race the horses themselves…or worse, sell all the horses and the farm, and Cromwell Stud becomes a golf course."

"What's pinhooking?" Juliet cried, unable to hide her confusion. "It sounds like a form of bowling alley prostitution!"

He snorted. "Buying a horse and reselling it at a profit," Carlton explained patiently. "Usually at auction."

"Use language we _understand_, Detective," Vick said wearily.

"Right. I've done some background checking on Moreston, but I'm not really hitting anything major, but I have no doubt that he was involved in Golden Crown's death. I mean, first of all, why wasn't she at Hollywood Park, training for her stakes debut? She was back at the farm, where people could come and go without really being noticed, particularly at night. We're going to be talking to her trainer this afternoon, and I'm sure he was wondering why she was taken back to the farm."

"Moreston's back in town tonight, right?" Vick asked, looking down at the folder on her desk.

"Yes. He is."

"Then I think you should talk to him, too. He was involved with Mrs Cromwell, which meant he was in her house sometimes, which would also give him access to the horse's insurance papers." Vick stood. "You have my permission to do any kind of stakeouts or stings as required and I'll talk to you, Detective Lassiter, about ponies some time. Iris won't stop talking about them…"

"A pony is a horse that measures less than fourteen and a half hands…" Carlton started, and Juliet gave him a look. "Well, she asked!"

"So a pony isn't just…a baby horse?" Vick asked.

"No. A baby horse is a foal," Carlton informed her.

Vick rolled her eyes. "So what do they call pony foals?"

Juliet thought for a moment. "Fonies?"

Carlton gave her a look that Juliet knew she would _never_ be able to match and left the room. She gave Vick a bright smile and scuttled out to catch up with her partner.

* * *

Juliet expected Alistair O'Herlihy to look _British_, complete with tweed coat and porkpie hat. Instead, he was a tall, lean, handsome Irishman with eyes almost as blue as Carlton's. She guessed he was about forty, and if his hair was thinning a little, he was still a striking man. When they got out of the Vic, the trainer was sitting astride a wildly spotted, wall-eyed Appaloosa, and he talking to a wiry little man carrying a saddle.

"Mr O'Herlihy?" Carlton flashed his badge, and the trainer looked startled for a moment, but he swung out of the saddle and regarded them both in a genial manner. "Detectives Lassiter and O'Hara, SBPD. We need to ask you a couple of questions."

"About the filly, eh? Golden Crown?"

"Yes, sir," Juliet nodded.

"Bloody hell…some damned limey bastard came here on the eighteenth and took her away, sayin' Mrs Cromwell wanted her back home. Well, ya know, I called her right then and there and I get Moreston on the phone, and he's sayin' she wasn't around – gone off shoppin' somewhere, he says, but I knew that was a load of bull…" he glanced at Juliet. "…twaddle. She would never demand a horse leave the shedrow just a few days before a stakes race, but as he's the farm manager, I got no say in such things so I had to let her go." He dug in his pocket, removed a strange-looking instrument that looked like a knife, and extracted a carrot. He sliced up the carrot and gave a few pieces to the Appaloosa, who took the offering politely. "There's a good lad," he told the horse. "I've got a whole stable a' horses to deal with, of course, so it's not like I had a lot of time for callin' again, though God knows I wish I had tried to get 'hold of her, 'cause if I had, that good filly'd be alive now, with a grade three stakes under her belt and a shot at a grade one and maybe even the Breeders' Cup."

"A limey bastard?" Carlton interjected, latching on to the most pertinent information. "Are you sure he was English?"

"Eh…English or some such. Sounded like either an Englishman or somebody from Boston. You know…a silly accent."

Carlton looked like he was trying to keep from laughing. "Right. Well."

"Did he give you his name, or did you hear his name?" Juliet asked.

"Phil somethin'. Duck? Dark? Dunno. We had a busy day that day, I'll tell ya. Sixteen starters in the afternoon, a whole herd of horses to gallop, plus we had grooms runnin' amuck and I barely speak a bloody word 'a Spanish, and a three-year old threw his rider just as we were arguin' about sending the filly away, so we had to go chase 'im down. I recall he was about...eh...my height I reckon. Bald as a baby's arse, and a bit chunky, but I was being pulled in six directions that day. I can't say as I got a really good look at 'im."

"You mean…the rider fell off the horse?" Juliet asked, as Carlton wrote the description down.

"Ah, missy, jockeys don't fall off horses," O'Herlihy told her. "They're _thrown_."

She glanced at Carlton, and caught him almost smiling. Almost.

"Thank you, Mr O'Herlihy. You've been very informative," Carlton told him.

"Aye, no trouble." He looked steadily at Carlton for a moment. "Are your people from Kildare?"

"Connemara," Carlton shrugged.

"Ah. The wild western coast of Ireland. Have ye been able to go?"

"Just after high school," Carlton answered.

Juliet listened to this exchange in utter fascination. Carlton _never _talked about his family or his past, much less his Irish ancestors. It wasn't as though he was ashamed of them, she knew, but it was just something he didn't care to discuss. And he had _never_ mentioned having visited Ireland.

"Galway?"

"I couldn't call myself a Connemara man without seeing the races at Galway, sir, and I also attended the races at The Curragh and I saw Ahonoora at the National Stud." Carlton nodded. "Thank you. If we have any more questions, will you be available?"

"Aye. You find out who killed that good filly, and I'll name my best colt for ye. And you, _colleen_…your name is _O'Hara_? What part of Ireland?" O'Herlihy asked her, smiling. He was, she thought, a very handsome man, and that Irish brogue added to his appeal. She looked from him to Carlton and back, seeing their resemblance, though Carlton was leaner and harder looking, while O'Herlihy exuded _bonhomie_.

"Scotland, actually. I was born in Scotland, and I'm _Scottish_."

"O'Hara's not a Scottish name," he informed her, with a friendly grin.

"I've been telling her that for years, but she insists she was born in _Albain_. I'm sure it was a mistake. Probably the result of too much Jameson's." Carlton said, and she caught just a hint of laughter in his voice. She wanted to smack him…and kiss him.

_Hello, your conscience speaking! You're dating Shawn, remember?_

_Oh, shut up._

She followed her partner back to the Vic, stepping over a steaming pile of manure, and got in as he turned the engine on. They sat for a moment, watching a brace of horses gallop by on the track.

"It's _Scottish_," she said firmly.

"O'Hara," he said, affecting an Irish brogue that made her cheeks turn pink, "there's no way anyone can ever believe that your ancestors were off eatin' haggis, wearin' kilts and squeezin' screamin' bags of air. No…they were ridin' the hills of Eire and losin' all their money at the Galway fair."

"You just made a poem!" she squeaked, unable to keep from laughing.

"Don't tell anybody. It'll ruin my street cred'." He gave her one his rare grins and backed out, heading toward Cromwell Stud.


	4. Chapter 4

See? I _can_ actually do some writing. There's more coming. Unwritten as yet, but it's coming. Some day. Soon. Really. Stop laughing.

Too horsey? I dunno. I'll be less horsey in the next installment, I promise.

* * *

"Okay, so what's the plan?" Juliet asked Carlton, who was leaning against the front door of the stud manager's office, hands in his pockets. He had removed his jacket and tie, and had rolled his sleeves up, so that he looked 'casually formal'. That is, he looked remarkably good, even with dark smudges under his eyes that told of his exhaustion – which made her ever more concerned. He was clearly not sleeping well lately, and he had barely eaten his lunch…

"I think an undercover operation is in order," he told her, without looking at her. She followed his gaze and saw that he was watching a small man leading a big, smug-looking grey horse toward them. "That's Vanishing River. If I were you, I'd get out of the way."

She skittered away, resisting the urge to hide behind her partner. The stud groom stopped the stallion, spoke sharply to him, and the stallion lowered his head, eyeing his handler before continuing to walk toward the barn.

"Is he dangerous?" Juliet whispered.

"Why are you whispering? This is not Bold Ruler. He doesn't get reverent whispers in his presence just _yet_. Are you Stu?" he called to the groom.

"Yessir…dammit, Van, would you stand still?" The stallion was prancing now, neck arched, tail up. "Big jerk. Whatcha want?" he asked Carlton, with no trace of animosity. He was clearly a man of action, and wasted little time with words. He was also surprisingly small, and so thin a good gust of wind would knock him down, but he was clearly in control of the huge grey stallion, and his growls at Vanishing River belied a close bond between them.

"Who's Bold Ruler?" Juliet asked.

Both men stared at her, both clearly appalled, and she could have sworn she heard her partner call her a perfect heathen. "I'm…Ben, and this is my…er…girlfriend, Julie." He gestured toward Juliet, whose eyes widened briefly before she smiled at Stu. "I'm taking over for Paul for the next few days, while he's on vacation. She's just dropping me off – she's not into horses."

"I like horses just fine, Ben," Juliet interjected, making sure not to put any unnecessary emphasis on his assumed name. He more or less ignored her, though – which meant he was pleased with her for playing her role so perfectly. "Big, clearly aroused stallions with huge feet and teeth…not so much," she said, gesturing politely at Vanishing River and his clear evidence of earlier debauchery.

"Paul's on vacation? Sharpie'll have a door-slammin' snit about that." The groom jerked his head to the side, indicating that Carlton and Juliet should both move as he led the stallion into the barn and into his stall. "Van did a Southern Hemisphere cover today," he explained, once the stallion settled in. "There's talk they may even shuttle him to Australia next season. Damn if I'll be able to take that. He's a right foul-tempered bastard sometimes, this horse, but I'd miss him like hell. He's got personality…an' you know personality goes a long way with pigs and horses."

As if in reply, or maybe in objection to being compared to a pig, Vanishing River let out a low, rumbling call that was an equine version of a lion's roar, and soon the other three stallions were calling back in reply.

"So you'll be dealin' with Sharp Dressed Man? Huh…he's a good horse. Quiet, pretty easy-goin' and friendly, but watch out – he likes things just so. His water bucket has to be _spotless_ or he'll throw a tantrum, and he doesn't like loud noises. An' if you don't got no peppermints on ya, he'll never let you live it down. You're experienced with horses, right?"

Carlton nodded, and Juliet was struggling to understand what the man was saying. He spoke in sputters and low mumbles, and she finally concluded that he really just spoke horse.

"I worked in Kentucky for years," Carlton – Ben – nodded. "Ashford and Gainesway. I know all about temperamental creatures, human or equine." He glanced at Juliet, who raised her eyebrows, feigning offense.

The stud groom nodded. "The perks are good 'round here. Fresh air, good food, free room an' board at the farm, and Miz Cromwell's real nice to ever'body. She pays a good wage, too. More'n most stud grooms get 'round these parts."

Stu led Carlton to Sharp Dressed Man's stall and pulled the door open. The stallion, a tall, lean, rugged-looking horse, was a dark, rich seal bay, just a shade off jet-black, with a narrow, almost comically question-mark-shaped blaze down his face. He had a long white sock on his left front leg that went up past his knee, and he regarded the two men with keen interest, eyes bright and even friendly, ears pricked forward.

"I saw him win the Hollywood Maturity six years ago," Carlton said. "He won me fifty dollars."

"Yeah, that's when they thought he was gettin' old," Stu grinned. "He whupped that colt from back East – _owned_ him, and that boy was a three-year old, and Sharpie was _seven_ and carryin' almost a hundred-forty pounds – that Maturity was one of the last real marathon races in this country – two miles! Remember that colt, prancin' up to the gate, all full of his own piss, and Sharpie just plodded along like he didn't even want to go in the gate. Then the bell rang and Sharpie showed that high-bred Kentucky jackass a thing or two. Sharpie's pedigree ain't much when you first look at it, but his sire threw tough horses, and his mama raced seventy-eight times and foaled five stakes-winners. He's _steel_ quality, not some blue-blood, and his get are iron tough_._"

Juliet glanced inside at the stallion, and almost yelped in alarm when Carlton scratched his nose. The stallion's ears flopped to the sides and he began nibbling on Carlton's shirtsleeve, clearly pleased at finding a new friend.

"Hey, he likes you," Stu nodded. "He only likes honest people. He likes Paul and Miz Cromwell, but Lord…get that boyfriend o' hers anywhere near him…he nearly took a chunk out of that man last time he got too close."

Carlton raised an eyebrow. "Really?"

"Yeah. You know how horses are. They can spot a fake a mile away."

Carlton nodded. "Well. Thanks." He began scratching the stallion's ears, and the big near-black animal started nuzzling Carlton's neck. "Gerroff, you big dope. You know, I'm almost tempted to introduce Sharpie to…an old _friend_ of mine. I'm sure they'd get along _swimmingly_."

He grinned at Juliet, who rolled her eyes. She doubted Shawn Spencer would last five minutes with Sharp Dressed Man.

* * *

Stu hung around for a while, introducing Carlton – now _Ben_ – to the other three stallions. Vanishing River studied the three of them with a neutral eye, neither friendly nor hostile, but Stu warned them to never get too close, as he was entirely studdish and nippy. Juliet thought he was gorgeous just the same – she had always liked white and gray horses, and secretly loved the knights that rode them.

Witchwood was an elegant, almost Arabian-looking chestnut, delicate looking, with a high-arching neck. He was as slender as any sprinter, and was the color of a brand new penny. He was friendly to the point of being a bit like a giant puppy, but Stu told them he was as tough as nails and relished a battle to the wire. "He won most of the time, too, then he'd go back to the barn and play with his cat."

Juliet wondered what the cat thought about that.

College Station, the oldest of the four stallions, reminded Juliet more of a bull than a horse – he was thick-necked, wide of chest, heavily muscled rather than fat, and exuded quiet, carefully contained power – he seemed to thrum even as he stood still. He did not invite or refuse attention, and stood with his back to the door, staring out the window of his stall at the broodmare pastures.

"Tell me about them," Juliet told Carlton, once they were alone.

He shrugged. "Witchwood won some big stakes races back East – a crack sprinter no one could outrun between five and seven furlongs. You know about Vanishing River." He jabbed his thumb toward College Station. "He won four allowance races at two and was retired after he stepped on a nail and caught an infection. After he recovered, he went to stud and has been among the top ten sires in the country for the past ten years. He beat the odds there – very rarely are non-stakes-winners going to make any impact at stud. He and Danzig are two exceptions to that rule."

"You said he was only a consistent sire," she pointed out, still staring at College Station and making a mental note to Google Danzig when she got home. _Not the city in Poland_.

"He's also getting old. Happens to the best of us, I guess. Or at least it _should_." He turned away from Juliet and went to find a place to stay overnight. She sighed and wandered over to gaze at the old stallion, who finally turned away from the window and gazed at her. She saw that he had silver threads in his mane and tail, and grey whiskers around his mouth, and if he didn't seem overly friendly, neither was he hostile. He was also obviously well-cared for, in that he had not an extra ounce of fat on him, and his coat gleamed in the late afternoon sunlight pouring in through the window. The stallion stepped forward, sniffing curiously at her, and she stepped away, knowing better than to keep too close to big teeth and hooves like his, and she could have sworn College Station looked disappointed.

"You're having a ball, aren't you?" she asked Carlton when he returned a few minutes later.

"Best time I've had with my clothes on in quite a while," he said absently, scratching Sharp Dressed Man's ears. She glanced at him, eyebrow up, and she saw his cheeks redden a little.

"I guess I'd better go then. You'll be okay here?"

"Yup." Carlton nodded.

"Don't start talking like Gabby Hayes, Carlton. Then you'll have to _walk_ like Gabby Hayes."

"Only if one of these horses kicks me," he answered with just trace of a smile. She went out to the Vic and got in, adjusting the seat, rolling the windows down to enjoy the scents of the farm – hay and horses and leather and testosterone. It was all rather heady, and she found it kind of intoxicating – suddenly, she wanted to read as much as she could about those four stallions. The whole thing – blood and history and money all rolled into one, and the four beautiful, dangerous beasts back in that barn were the culmination of it all.

Antonia Cromwell was the only person on the farm aware that Carlton was a 'plant' and was cooperating with the investigation, and had arranged for Carlton to take a small apartment near the farm office, but he would be sleeping in the stud barn at night. She wondered if he would be comfortable, and if he had a blanket, but knew better than to ask him, because he usually planned ahead.

She waved to her partner as she drove away, and paused at the farm gates to watch a herd of colts bouncing around a field. She immediately recognized that the greys were all sired by Vanishing River, the chestnuts were by Witchwood, and the black colts with white faces and high-stockinged legs were sired by Sharp Dressed Man, while the haughty black and dark brown colts were College Station's. She figured Carlton would be proud of her – she was starting to recognize horses!

* * *

"So you hung out all afternoon at a _horse farm_?" Shawn laughed. "That sounds awful. Hope you watched where you stepped."

"It was pretty fun, actually." Juliet had her laptop open and was reading an article about Danzig the stallion – he had only raced a few times at two, but his trainer had believed in him and vigorously promoted him despite his 'fairly modest female line' and Danzig had gone on to be one of the most influential stallions of all time. "I learned a lot." She didn't mention that she had learned a lot about Carlton, too, and that he was so much more fascinating even than Danzig.

Or Shawn.

"Well. So long as you _learned_ something," Shawn rolled his eyes. Gus had gone out to buy taquitos and they were camped out at the Psych office. He was watching some stupid horror movie from the 1950's and she was ignoring it as much as possible. "You know, you haven't really spent much time together lately, Jules. We should go away somewhere."

"I don't want to go away somewhere," she answered absently, reading another article about ideal conformation of the Thoroughbred. She would have started taking notes on what a 'spavin' was but decided against it. Shawn would just pout that she wasn't paying attention to him.

She tried to think of exactly when her boyfriend had started to get on her nerves. It wasn't something she really relished thinking about now, but he had been annoying her a lot lately. _A lot_.

"Seriously? Come on, didn't we have a blast during that weekend at the resort?"

"That Gus paid for and you spent most of the time bleating about your lost DS and only wanted to take a hot air balloon ride so you could chase down a criminal. Yeah. I had a ball." She didn't even look up, having found a quote from Tesio: _The Thoroughbred runs with his legs, perseveres with his heart and wins with his character_. She continued reading the Wikipedia article, increasingly fascinated. Tesio had indeed started an empire on horses, snatching up cheap mares at auctions in France and England, which had resulted in some _damn_ good racehorses, apparently (not she was sure how to correctly pronounce 'Ribot'). The sudden urge to travel to Lake Maggiore, in Italy, to see the remnants of the farm there hit her, and she wondered if Carlton would like to go…

_No. No, stupid. Shawn. Ask Shawn if he'd like to go_. Lake Maggiore was said to be extremely beautiful, and not as touristy as some places in Italy, and really, what was prettier a lakeside farm? In the springtime, maybe, with little foals bouncing around and flowers blooming. They would sit by the lake, watching the water and the sailboats and Carlton would grouch about there being too much eat and how would they get the weight off without taking a trip to England to go on a diet before they came home and how, as an Irishman, would he be able to endure staying at some damned inn in the Cotswolds, starving and listening to people mispronounce 'schedule' and 'vitamin'…

_Dammit, you're supposed to be thinking about going to Italy with Shawn. Your boyfriend. Remember?_

Yeah. Like taking Shawn to Italy would be a rewarding experience, she thought as she watched him watch the movie. He was shoveling popcorn into his mouth as if _he_ were starving. Yet she knew he had eaten his tenth meal of the day about twenty minutes ago and would snarf down three or four more meals before midnight and it was _already ten o'clock_.

Italy was _not _a place to take Shawn Spencer. England, maybe. There was a place to lose a bit of weight. Lock him in a room with nothing but toad-in-the-hole and Picadilly beef and he might be off his feed for months.

Yeah. So he was getting kind of…pudgy. She remembered when she had first met him, when he had been rather…handsome (aside from that huge hornker of a nose), but now his face was fatte-…_wider_ and his nose kind of…_fit_ it better.

_Stop it_. How petty, she thought, angry with herself. It's very unkind to criticize him for his weight gain.

_Okay. So don't rag about the weight. He might sit on you in retaliation. And it's not like he's got a thyroid problem.  
_

_**Shut up**_.

_What, you like it when he's on top of you? When was the last time you had sex? Remember? He fell asleep! It was over before you even got into the room! And we won't even talk about the other issues going on in the bedroom. Or actually, what's _not_ going on. They say size doesn't matter, but…seriously. It does. And then there's the fact that he eats so much and never exercises and so therefore he has trouble with the Melty Man, as it was called so wonderfully on 'Coupling', and really, it would have been cruel if he had seen you laughing in the bathroom. Yeah, you sat there and told him it was okay, it wasn't his fault, that you still thought he was the Sexiest Man Alive and let him call Gus to swing by with some churros and smoothies and then you had to escape into the bathroom and turn the sink and the shower on so you could laugh while he waited for his post-attempted-coital three a.m. meal. Which was followed by the four a.m. meal._

"Dammit," she said, tired of listening to her inner voice berating her so loudly. "Shawn, I have to go home. Got stuff to…uh…do."

"Huh? What is there to do?" He looked bewildered. "But Gus is bringing taquitos and pineapple smoothies and we were gonna to do some prank calls…"

"How many times do I have to tell you to stop doing prank calls, Shawn? Twelve-year old boys do that. Not thirty-six year olds."

"But…you love prank calls."

"When have I ever said that I loved prank calls? And remember the last time you called Carlton? He blew that whistle and you ended up having to go to the doctor because you couldn't hear out of your right ear for a week, and you whined about that so much I wanted to stuff a sock in your mouth. I actually kind of enjoyed watching you suffer, because you were _finally_ experiencing some consequences of being such a…"

"Such a _what_?" Shawn cut in sharply, eyes narrowing just a little. Strange, but she didn't feel even vaguely threatened. Was he trying to be threatening? He was as threatening as an Easter Peep.

_What, exactly, do you see in him? Poorly dressed, lazy, amoral, clearly a food addict, ADD, narcissistic and rude. That's cute? Didn't you get over cute when you were about eighteen? And what's so great about cute? It lasts five minutes! Just like Shawn in the sack! Or with him, less than three at best!_

She shook her herself, hissing at her inner voice to shut up. "A jerk, Shawn. Sometimes, you're just a jerk. In fact, you're a jerk about ninety-five percent of the time, and I don't want to eat taquitos, however much you think I love them and pineapples and everything else you want to do, without you even asking what I want at all - or should I bring up my father as a prime example? I don't want to watch this stupid movie about giant people-eating globs of Jello, and I damn sure don't want to sit up all night making prank phone calls with a pair of twelve-year old boys!" She smacked her laptop shut, apologizing silently to Danzig, and gathered up her purse and keys. "I'll see you around, Shawn."

He was oofing to his feet as she walked out the door, and she didn't hear him say whatever he was saying in objection to her diatribe. Maybe it was time he got a taste of not being _heard_.

Once she was safely outside on the sidewalk, she exhaled and looked up at the sky, hearing the ocean and ship bells and made a decision. It was time. Dammit, it was just _time_.


	5. Chapter 5

Okay, I couldn't resist bringing Shawn in, for a bit of fun. I mean, really, who wouldn't?

* * *

Carlton stood at Sharp Dressed Man's side, grooming and talking in a low, quiet voice, just saying whatever came to his head as he worked, and the way the stallion's ear was turned toward him, he knew he was being listened to.

Damned few people ever really seemed to listen to him, he thought, with just a frisson of bitterness. Too bad the horse couldn't offer advice. Not even tips on who to pick in the fifth at Hollywood Park, and who would have better inside knowledge than the horse that was the sire of one of the runners entered? The horse also gave him no advise about his personal life. Or lack thereof.

"I wanted a horse when I was a kid," he said. "My father took me to the track a few times, see, and I guess I got bitten by the bug, so to speak. But we couldn't afford horses, and then Dad left and Mom burned all of his old _Blood-Horse_ and _Thoroughbred Record_ magazines, which _sucked_ big time, and…well…I had to get over all that really quick. No use crying over spilled milk or burned racing magazines, right?" He got out the comb and began carefully removing any tangles from the horse's mane. "I compensated by getting a job when I was fourteen at a farm up the road from us – I would ride my bike up there and I was exercising the horses and walking hots and doing anything they'd let me do, and soon I was delivering foals and taking mares to the stud barn…that kind of thing. You know how things operate, right?"

The stallion tried to nibble on his sleeve, and Carlton berated him gently before turning his attention to the tail. Once he was satisfied that the horse was happy and well-groomed, he made sure he had a proper amount of fresh timothy hay and his water trough was squeaky clean and full of fresh water before stepping out of the stall and sliding the door shut, locking the bolt carefully. He checked the other stallions' stall doors, too, and got a cool, appraising look from Vanishing River, while Witchwood started licking him to the point of a mauling and College Station allowed, with great dignity, a few scratches between the eyes and along his withers, where he couldn't reach on his own.

He listened to the night sounds – an owl had taken up residence in the barn rafters, and he looked up at the creature, which looked down at him as if to say, 'Who are you and _what_ are you doing here?' Carlton shrugged. "This is only a temporary position."

"Who are you talking to?"

He nearly jumped out of his skin, and turned to see Juliet standing in the doorway, arms folded across her chest.

"The _hell_?" he hissed. "What are you doing here? Weren't you on a date with Spencer?"

"A date involving Shawn _and_ Gus does not constitute a _date_," she said, shrugging, and heard him mutter 'Asshat', which was to be expected. She stepped into the barn and held up a bag of carrots. "Will they like these?"

"Yeah." He turned away and went to College Station's stall. The near-black stallion came forward, ears pricked, and watched Juliet extract a carrot from the bag, and she had to shake off the silly notion that he should be wagging his tail. "Break it into pieces," Carlton instructed her. She did so, and he told her to hold it out to the stallion on her flat palm. She nervously stepped forward and squeezed her eyes shut, expecting to come back with missing digits. Instead, she only felt her hand being brushed by soft, whiskery horse lips and the carrot was gone.

"Ooh! He took it!" she squeaked, pleased to receive such an honor from such an aged, revered animal. College Station munched his carrot, turning his head from side to side to get a better look at Juliet, then he returned to his 'feed me' position, and she held out her palm again, offering another piece of carrot. The stallion took it with the kind of dignity one could expect from a king and snuffled at her wrist.

"You can pet him, you know. He's not mean."

Very cautiously, she touched the stallion's nose, then scratched him lightly between the eyes. College Station accepted her ministrations with regal good grace before finally turning away and heading to his water bucket for a drink. He was clearly only sociable on his own terms.

"See? Nothing to be afraid of. What are you doing here?"

"Oh…" She shrugged a little. "Just wanted to get away a bit."

He stared at her, brow furrowed. "I'm sure you have vacation time. Take a trip to Rio."

She looked surprised. "I don't want to go to Rio. I was thinking about Italy, actually."

"Yeah. Once you and Spencer leave, Italy will need to restock the pantry, but you'll have fun, I'm sure." _So long as you do everything he wants to do, of course. No point requesting otherwise_. He turned away, back toward Sharp Dressed Man's stall, but she moved around to stand in front of him.

"I meant a vacation from _Shawn_, actually. He's…a lot, you know? A lot of talk, very little action…" She sighed and leaned on the wall between two stalls. She looked up at him for a moment, and he reminded himself to gather up his control, because he always needed it when it came to O'Hara. "He never listens to me, either. I told him I didn't want to see my father, so he goes and gets my father. I told him I wanted a relaxing weekend getaway, and he turns it into a DS hunt and criminal investigation…I mean, yeah, a murderer did need to get caught and the balloon ride was fun, but I'm pretty ashamed of myself for asking _him_ to take the lead in the search, since I'm a freaking _trained detective_ and everything, but…"

He felt his control slip a bit, his jaw tightening and his hands forming into fists.

"Well, you know how it is," he finally said, his voice raspy as he struggled to keep from shouting at her. His equine charge hated loud noises. "Spencer runs all our investigations nowadays anyway, right? He's solved, what, about a hundred cases or so in the past seven years? Roughly fourteen a year – that's a lot of _work_ for someone who hates to work! Never mind that I have personally solved literally hundreds of cases in the past year and you've solved about as many, not counting the ones we've solved together, and then there's all those cases the other detectives in the squad have solved _sans_ Spencer, and wow, you'd think we actually had a clue about what we were doing or something. Excuse me." He had to keep himself from just shoving her aside and stalking to the empty stall where he would be sleeping.

She said nothing. He undid the latch on the stall door and slid it open. He had already laid out a blanket and a pillow in there. There was no straw on the stall floor, as no horse lived in it. Like the other stalls, it was rubber-floored, and he knew it was going to play hell with his hips and his back, but such was police work. If he had intended to be comfortable on the job, he should have become a florist.

He didn't go into the stall yet, though. He kept his back to O'Hara, not wanting her to see how angry he felt now. Angry and bitter and…and…dammit, jealous. Yeah, so there's a lot of testosterone in here, he thought. People can say I'm a robot as much as they like, but…well, damn. Damn it all straight to hell.

"Well, like I said, he never listens to me," she reiterated. "And when he does pretend to listen, he has no clue what I'm talking about. I mean, after almost a year, you'd think a guy would get a clue about your signals and your needs, right, but-…"

"Stop it."

She raised her eyebrows, though she wasn't surprised. "What?"

"Stop it. Stop. I don't want to hear it. I am not your girlfriend, and I don't want to be your girlfriend." He still didn't turn around to face her. "You signed on for all his crap when you declared that you loved the son of a bitch, and he claimed to love you, too – though only an absolute _idiot_ could fail to notice that he's a narcissist, so he actually can't love anybody but himself - so if you can't _handle_ his asshattery and his unending line of bull, then you shouldn't have bothered. But you did, and he is, and so you should. You wanted that. You bought it all, hook, line, sinker, blubber and stupid hairdo. So suck it up and deal with it."

"Are you calling me an idiot?" she asked him, glad he couldn't see her in the darkness, because he would have seen she was more amused than offended, which would have completely confused him.

He finally turned around to face her. "_If the shoe fits_! I refuse to lie to you. You want lies? Go play with Spencer. I'm sure he's got lots of fun toys and he's unbeaten at lying. Maybe you'll learn how to lie, too. Maybe you'll become as much an expert at it as he is, and the two of you can become grifters. Solving crimes, one lie at a time! I may be an arrogant, unfeeling robot, but one thing I _don't_ do is lie." He pulled the stall door open and stepped inside. "When you get tired of lies, talk to me. Until then…I don't want to hear about it."

He pulled the door shut, and she contemplated locking him in there, to teach him a lesson about his 'boundaries', and looked around the barn for a moment before moving over to College Station's stall door. She was extremely pleased with her partner – he had just passed an important test, with flying colors.

The black stallion, barely visible in the deepening darkness, turned his head to face her, ears forward. "Hi," she whispered.

The stallion snuffled at her and shook himself like a dog.

"I've been reading about you," she said softly, knowing Carlton couldn't hear her in his black anger. "You never got to show them what you could do on the track, did you? But your kids – they've been kicking ass all over the world, haven't they? You even sired a Kentucky Derby winner…and that snotty colt from back East was a flop at stud, wasn't he? Served him right."

College Station stepped closer, and she cautiously held out her hand, revealing another piece of carrot. He took it quietly and she could hear him munching.

"Stop feeding him! He'll get spoiled!" Carlton snapped from inside his stall. College Station tossed his head. She ignored her partner and took a sugar cube out of her pocket.

"Here," she said, stroking the stallion's forehead as he accepted his treat and drooled a little on her hand. "Aren't you a handsome devil? Black and gray and grouchy and sexy. Yeah, you are sexy, aren't you? All the mares around here say so, don't they, you big lug. I saw some of your babies today – they all looked just as grumpy as you, but it's just an act, isn't it? I'll bet they're as gentle as kittens if they're treated right." She lowered her voice a little. "Just like the big lug sleeping on the floor in that stall. Of course, I won't let him talk to me that way again – don't get me wrong. But I had to hear it, to be sure."

College Station snorted and turned away from her, his sociability only on his own terms, and no one else's.

"Get the hell outta here, O'Hara!" Carlton growled, and she had to bite her lip to keep from giggling as she left.

* * *

Morning consisted of coffee, oatmeal, and a mid-morning Southern Hemisphere breeding for Sharp Dressed Man. Carlton had to call upon all his previous experience of dealing with excited stallions and whistled quietly while he prepared his charge and then walked him to the breeding shed. He saw Antonia standing outside the breeding barn with a marginally handsome young man, and he politely nodded to them both. The stallion, neck arched and eyes wide, began to bounce along the cedar-shaving path, tail flying like a banner, and he became even more eager when he saw the mare, a rather elderly liver chestnut dowager whose name, according to the orange tag on her halter, was Missturken. "By Turkoman, no doubt," he told Sharp Dressed Man, but the stallion didn't give a damn who she was related to.

"Ben…this is my friend Cade," Antonia said, watching with an air of detachment as Sharp Dressed Man was being washed and prepped for the cover. "Cade, this is Sharpie's groom."

"I thought his groom was that other guy," Cade said, without much interest. "Whatisname. The guy that looked like Joe Pesci's demented nephew."

"He's gone back home to Ohio. His mother is sick," Antonia explained.

"Oh. Right."

Cade didn't seem interested in watching the proceedings. Missturken seemed even less enthused about it, but she endured the stallion's attentions only when properly prepared, her upper lip in a twitch and her right hind hoof pulled up to keep her from kicking as he mounted her. Once the stallion's tail flagged, he was persuaded to dismount and he was led away, the picture of happy, arrogant contentment, and Carlton released him into his pasture for a gallop and a roll in his sand pit.

Carlton ambled back over to the stud barn, at loose ends until time to bring his charge back in for the night, and saw Antonia sitting on a bale of hay, looking a little gloomy. Looking around before he approached her, he asked her how she was doing. She did that strange hair-tucking-behind-the-ear thing that women did around him sometimes and shrugged. "What did Alistair say?" she asked.

"He couldn't figure out why she was moved from the racetrack back to the farm," he told her. "And said somebody called Phil Drake came to collect her."

"Phil Drake? He won the English Derby in nineteen-fifty-five!"

He grinned, pleased with her. She knew her stuff. "Right. Kinda hinky, needless to say. Have you seen your boyfriend hanging around with a chunky bald guy lately? With maybe a Boston accent?"

She squinted a little, thinking. "I can't recall, but I will keep a lookout. How is Vanishing River?"

"Safe and sound, so far. His groom is devoted to him, and so are the other stud grooms to their horses. The stud barn is secure – fireproof, too, right?"

"Cinder block, sprinklers in every stall," she nodded. "If you want to meet the entire farm staff, just light a cigarette in there," she said with a smile. "You know, the animal rights nuts say we're just about the money around here. But I cry when we have to put down a twenty-six year old broodmare that failed to produce a single winner. And then something like this happens to Golden Crown, and my stallions might be in danger…and if Cade had something to do with this, Detective…" She shook her head. "I'm keeping my mouth shut about it, to him, of course. But it's not just the animals, see - it's the people around here. Our reputations – not just mine…_all of us_. We're a family here on this farm. If somebody is coming in here and hurting our horses, we all suffer and we all want to make sure it never happens again. I don't believe in animal rights – I believe in human responsibility. We have a duty to take care of our animals and treat them humanely, and if people think we don't, we're _sunk_. All of us. An historic farm will close down, a lot of horses could end up in bad places, and a lot of people will lose their jobs."

"Don't worry," he nodded, glancing up to see Cade coming toward them. "We'll find out who did it." She stood up, brushing dust off her black skirt, and the younger man gave Carlton a dismissive nod.

"Beau, was it?"

"Ben."

"Right. Right. C'mon, babe, we were going to dinner, remember?"

"Yes," she nodded, looking a little nonplussed. "Not _cart_ food this time, please?"

"What, you don't like churros?" he asked, guiding her toward a sleek black Jaguar.

Carlton gave Cade another careful look when the man's back was turned. Was he related to Spencer, maybe?

"I hate churros, Cade. Seriously. Can't we eat grownup food tonight?"

"Aw, c'mon, babe…you only live once!"

"Yes, but I'd like to live with unclogged arteries and normal blood pressure, thanks…" she was saying, as she got into the car, on her own, and closed the door – Moreston didn't even open the door for her, or make sure she was comfortable. What kind of man didn't do that for a woman? It was just good manners, wasn't it, to make sure the woman was as comfortable as possible?

And really, what kind of woman _accepted_ that kind of disrespectful behavior?

He chided himself then – he had given O'Hara a pretty hard ticking off last night, so he knew he was one to talk. They drove away, and Carlton wandered around the farm for the rest of the day, watching for paunchy bald men with silly accents.

He thought about what he had said to O'Hara last night – he had let his bitterness boil over, and now he knew he would have to apologize. There was no point letting his emotions get the better of him, was there? She was going to keep on accepting Spencer's lies, for whatever reason, and would likely marry the unctuous hug-mongering little prick and squeeze out a litter of lying little brats just like their father (as if he'd let her teach them anything about honor and decency) and in about ten years she would be divorced, destitute and heartbroken. Carlton knew he was already two of those things, but there was no use dwelling on the past or, really, worrying about the future. Things were as they were, and he had no reason to think anything was going to change.

However much he hated watching it happen, all he knew he could do was just try to be there for her when the crap hit the fan. In the meantime, he would just keep his yap shut.

Apologize first, jackass, he told himself, feeling miserable again. _Then_ shut your yap.

He kicked a rock as he headed toward Sharp Dressed Man's pasture, thinking about the case and the suspects and what else could be done to flush out Golden Crown's killer, and decided he would go over it with O'Hara tomorrow morning and add the apology to the mix.

At the gate, he picked up the bucket of oats he had left there and shook it, whistling, and the stallion came bouncing over to him, happy as a clam and covered with dirt.

"Yeah, you get a sex life at fifty thousand a jump. I get a firing range and gray hair," he told him.

"Yo, Lassie!"

He whirled around, startled and reaching for his gun – which wasn't there - and saw Spencer and Guster getting out of that ridiculous little blue car. His eyes narrowed. "What in the name of _Sweet Lady Justice_ are you doing here?" he asked coldly.

Shawn grinned and bounced over to him, in much the same manner as the stallion, only a lot dumber. "Oh, right, Jules said to call you 'Ben'. I don't think anybody heard me. Except maybe the horse there. What does he call you?"

Carlton didn't answer. He picked up the lead chain and snapped it onto the stallion's halter and snap at the two younger men to get out of the way. He unlatched the gate and led Sharp Dressed Man out, the stallion playfully nipping at his shirtsleeve. "Cut it out," he said. "Behave." He glanced at Spencer and Guster. "So…you guys want to watch a live cover?"

"Sure! Sounds fun. Any progress on the murder of that horse?"

"We're making inroads."

"What I still can't figure out," Shawn said, moving carefully out of kicking range from the stallion, "is where I got that psychic vibe about the dead Swedish woman." He looked at Guster, who shrugged.

"And you recall, of course, that you are not cleared to be involved with this case. So you're on borrowed time right now." Carlton smiled benevolently at them both and led the stallion back to the barn, and let Spencer and Guster stand around, bored, while he gave his charge a bath and a proper grooming before measuring out his evening meal and making sure his water bucket was clean before putting him in his cleaned-out stall. He checked the breeding schedule and saw that Vanishing River was up for a Southern Hemisphere breeding, and grinned, delighted. The two idiots were in for a show.

"So…" Shawn said. "What's a live cover?"

"The stallion mounts the mare and breeds her naturally…well, as naturally as you can call it under such controlled circumstances," Carlton told him. "Among other breeds, artificial insemination is permitted, but not with Thoroughbreds."

"Why's that?" Guster asked him. Stu arrived and went to Vanishing River's stall. The stallion was led out and given a quick brushdown and a stern talking-to about gentlemanly behavior, and the three men followed them along the path to the breeding shed.

"The idea is that they want absolute certainty of the sire and dam of each foal," Carlton explained. "Questionable lineage brings down the foal's value."

Shawn looked, for a moment, like he might reach out and pat Vanishing River on the neck, but the stallion's eye rolled back toward him, like Moby Dick's eye at Captain Ahab, and Spencer stepped away, recognizing the warning. He didn't look pleased when Stu stopped the stallion on the path to do a little adjusting to his halter and Carlton scratched the gray's forehead, which was accepted with gracious good manners.

"Why don't horses like me, Gus?" Shawn asked.

"There's probably thousands of reasons," Guster answered. "Same reason a lot of people don't like you, either."

"Hey, now, that's just mean! Everybody loves me!"

"Really?" Gus gestured toward Lassiter with a 'See?' look. "And then there's your Dad, who I know sometimes wants to take a whip to your whiny ass, and if you asked a lot of people what they thought of you, they'd say they liked you okay but wouldn't trust you with a pet rock."

"Jules loves me!" Shawn snapped, getting irritated. Carlton eyed the two men, wondering what they had been fighting about recently.

"Can we stop this dissertation on Spencer's many faults and get moving, please?" Carlton interjected, before Guster could respond, and headed to the stud barn, Vanishing River beginning to prance in anticipation of his upcoming date.

* * *

Vanishing River dismounted from the mare, and Carlton glanced over at the fake psychic and his partner. Guster had developed a definite – and possibly permanent - facial tic, and Spencer was sitting down on the rubber-covered floor of the breeding barn, holding his head in his hands and moaning.

"What's wrong with those two?" Stu asked as he cleaned Vanishing River's extended penis off with soap and water. The mare, a pretty and delicate-looking chestnut named Leadalltheway, was also being cleaned off and comforted, as this had been her first cover. She let out a rather shrill whinny, and Carlton wondered if she was asking the stallion to call her later.

"Well…the pudgy one has penis envy of an epic kind, and this just made it _worse_, and the other guy…well…let's just say he's not into animal husbandry."

Shawn began to shake uncontrollably and refused to look up at all until the stallion was gone.

"It's all right now, Spencer. Elvis has left the building," Carlton said, giving the younger man a sympathetic pat on the shoulder.

Guster, wiping his eyes, staggered away toward the Blueberry, making a weird kind of keening sound that made the mare toss her head and buck. Shawn managed to get back to his feet, grabbed Carlton's arms and said something very earnestly in some other language, before stumbling away, still muttering in tongues. Carlton finally heard Shawn squeal, "I am _never_ visiting a horse farm _again_!"

Carlton grinned, and gave Vanishing River a friendly pat on the neck. "Thanks, buddy. You improved an otherwise crappy day!" The stallion snorted and let his groom lead him to his pasture for a gallop. Carlton walked toward the stud barn and another night of sleeping on a hard rubber floor.

He would apologize to O'Hara later. For now, he would relish the look on Spencer's face.


End file.
